Saturday, November 12, 2011

TDC WEAW WEEKEND AT WILLIES You Never Leave A Friend Behind

We could not escape. There was no exit for us. We had a single Entrance, and it was one that would not last for another twenty minutes.

Each Entrance, you see, becomes narrower and exists for shorter periods of time, each time you use one of them.

You will chase them fruitlessly, furtively, until you reach your end.

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I pulled the fire alarm down, and a burst of red paint sprayed my hand. Lucky for me that such a marker did not catch me in the eyes. It simply burst all over my two best friends as they ran along behind me, all over their clothing.

Not in their eyes, Gobless ‘em.

Outside, we ran to the parking garage. The whole mansion rang with alarm at our departure. Chauffeurs looked toward the front doors, and seeing them, I grabbed my two friends and tugged them to the darkness.

It would always be that way. Sorry about that.

The door behind us erupted with kitchen staff and weird old fucks in purple robes pouring out like a stream of diarrhea, and they looked to the parking lot.

Behind them, folks afraid of being burned to death in a mansion fire ran out, and they crashed into those angry searchers. Folks in a panic will trample those who are in the way. It’s always a good idea to get the fuck out of the way when you exit an aircraft on fire, or a mansion that is about to explode.

All of the doors opened in this manner.

I ran back to the rear of the garage and saw that there were fuel tanks. These would be quite useful as ladders to get up on the roof.

Of course the mansion wasn’t about to explode. But we three punk bastards were the only ones to know this important piece of information.

I pulled Katheena up onto the nearest fuel tank and then grabbed her lovely backside to push her up to the lower edge of the roof. Then I leaped and dug my fingernails into the tar shingles to pull my self up. I wasn’t going to help Joey up in the same manner as Katheena.

I would pull him up, with my now bleeding finger tips.

Panic is helpful, but it can be messy. Do Not Panic, unless you need to. Then, be aware of the repercussions.

We crept to the rising edge of the garage roof, lied down on our bellies, and peered over at the melee below.

We watched those rich pigs stream out of the mansion that rained down on their fancy clothing.

A dark figure among them stopped.

He looked up into the night sky...

He put his finger to his lips.

Folks flew around him in a smear of watercolor in a rain squall, and they ran to their chauffeurs in their panicked state.

The parking lot became a cluster fuck.

That old man peered up to the top of the garage, through his black, round shades with the one on the right side broken down the middle.

He looked right through me. I shivered.

He nodded. The he turned, and he pointed to the top floors of the mansion, behind him.

I looked up to where he pointed, and I didn’t have a fucking clue.

Huh?

When I looked back down at him, he was gone.

Chust like that.

Hah?

I looked back up at the highest window, and saw a figure.

Warren Haynes. I’ll Be The One.

Katheena looked up into my face. “Will! What the fuck?”

Joey pounded my arm from the other side. “Weeee-ill! I just seen that creepy bastard who was trying to kill you!”

They were looking to me for direction, and I had chust about shit my pants.

What the hell would you have done?

Well, I know what you would have done.

You would have remembered Sean.

Why?

Here’s why.

Sean was still up inside.

Rich folks who built their mansions like old fashioned hotels back then did not know a simple fact, which is this: The above floors would not rain down from their overhead sprinklers until their fire detectors sensed heat, smoke, or fire.

This confabulation was intended to save a whole building from water damage, unless the fire was not contained, and only then would they activate on the upper floors.

I thought you knew that?

No worries.

I got your back.

LINKS

Herman Cain, by Mike Tyson. Oh Yeah. Fuck it. Mike should run.

Herman Cain, by Bad Lip reading. Fuck Yeah. That Bad Lip Reading dude should be the speech writer for Tyson.

We would have to go back in to get Sean. Yup. And it was raining inside. As we ran out, so did many others, to escape the downpour. We were feeling the comedown. And as we exited the servants' door, that alarm began to ring, but so did the whole place because of the fire alarm.

I pulled my two friends behind the car garage, because we feeling the come down again. We would need to line up yet again. Twenty minutes would get shorter each time.

That’s why such a pursuit is stoopid, frootless, and also, stupid and fruitless.

We would gain energy and strength again, but these things existed for shorter and narrower amounts of time.

They wanted to run off, but I held them at bay for a second.

I looked down at the stream of rich pigs in various stages of soaked, expensive attire spewing out of the exits.

Joey looked at me, shoulders shrugging. “Sup, Weeeeee-iil?

Katheena studied me for a moment, and then she looked to the upper levels of the mansion where that creepy old guy had been pointing. “Oh. Fuck. I forgot.”

Smart chick. I nodded. Joey’s eyes widened. “Uh, what? What?”

Katheena said, “Sean.”

Joey looked up at the high window on the mansion. There was nothing.

By now, you know something about Joey. He had (and still has) the sort of memory that a chick will exhibit to you only when she wants to call up all the details of an old argument or situation.

He remembered why we were there, after all the chaos and entropy happening at that moment.

“Sean... Wow... Fuck.”

One thing I hadn’t considered was this: We would be drenched when we Entered. And so would any sort of dry desert powder in a paper envelope in a leather jacket.